The first sign said
No Trespassing
After climbing over the gate
And walking across the forbidden land
The second sign said
Permission to Pass
We couldn’t help but wonder
For whom was this one written?
It is always good
To be forgiven
To step foot on these shores is to step back into an older California
Preserved in the ether of wood, and rust, and leather
If exclusion is the cost, so be it
Surely we’ve spent more for less elsewhere
By the way, if you can get me past the front gate
I give really good deals on commissioned artwork out here
I just thought I should mention that
Found another one from the last road trip. Not sure how this wasn’t posted earlier. Painted during the Rey Fire a few weeks ago. Those are its massive plumes in the upper right glowing in the afternoon sun. Huge thanks to those that made this view possible for me. The word I heard was that 4 other painters were denied access here earlier in the day before I came along. To paraphrase an old song, its not that my path was shining, I was walking on outstretched hands. Grateful indeed.
We all travel in a line around here, between mountains and sea, making stops at key destinations along the way, much like boats seeking harbor at successive ports as they
sail up or down a coast.
This particular voyage brought me to this port late in the day. I parked in a neighborhood somewhere behind that flagpole in the distance and proceeded to join the masses from every corner of the earth. One foot in front of the other, with each step a different language is heard. I enjoyed the choir while walking the length of the pier and circling back around the harbor and out to the end of this breakwall.
With my large backpack, complete with a rusty bucket clanking around back there, I was glared at like just another down-and-out fisherman who’d lost it all, but wasn’t ready to walk away from the harbor just yet.
And now that the sun has set I’m not ready to walk away either. I don’t feel finished with this painting, but this day is finished with me.
-Entry on August 23, 2016
The hills burn and we breathe the smoke as they exhale.
Second hand exposure to long forgotten memories.
The mountains never forget.
Of course I could have just drove up and painted right here. It’s barely 50 feet from the parking spot. But first I had to spend an hour or two exploring the inland side of the road, scouring around the train tracks and straining unsuccessfully to find a passable goat trail up the steep eroded bluffs to gain a view looking down on this pier.
And again, I could always head out on these uncertain view-scouting missions without grabbing my 40 pound pack of gear, and just come back for it once I find a suitable view, but
instead I hauled that thing all over these dry dusty hills full of pricks and burrs in the heat of a Southern California summer, before conceding my defeat and just painting from the water’s edge instead.
Without these miscalculations and inefficiencies, what would I be? Some sort of well oiled machine?
Sounds boring. And I don’t rust in the hot tub
either.
-Entry on August 22, 2016
Even though she was royalty
We continued to stare
At the lines
Around
Her blue eyes
And at the
Shape of her
Trembling
Lips
That encircled
Her delicate mouth
Meeting her was
Our good fortune
She showed us grace
And mercy
We did not
Earn
Little did we know then
Just how good
The Queen would be to us
Or just how difficult
Fortune can be
For those
Who have received it
The hills are on fire
Pass the potato chips
We mean no disrespect
But what else is there to do?
This painting tour of the Santa Barbara/Ventura coast is quickly developing a wildfire theme. Every time you turn around down here there is another fire raging on another hill. I had a different spot in mind today, but the view of the smoke plume from this little utility road was just too good to pass up.
Each distant hill
Another mound of sticks
Prepared from long ago
For the clouds
To warm themselves
While California burns
These atmospheric bonfires
Often stop traffic
And force the impatient
Onto unmarked utility roads
With no clear exit
Good luck with that
Black Honda Civic
I saw you go in
And back out again
In reverse
On a flat and windy day here
I asked her father for his blessing
That his only daughter might become my bride
He laughed and paddled hard for a terrible little wave
Kicking this tour off with a bit of urban lore, some ghosts of 80s punk rock, some working class grind, and beach house lounge jockeys all woven together in an iconic Southern California juxtaposition. With waves. Don’t leave anything valuable in your car.
We throw these stones
Fighting this war
We declared on sand
On Babylon
And one another
We won’t
Be finished
Until our better angels
Concede defeat
Single session studio painting, not plein air at all, it just looks that way…
I don’t work from single photos too often these days, but this quick snapshot from a few years back had been begging to get painted all that time. Yesterday I caved in and painted it in one session in the studio. Glad I did. The more I spent time with this captured moment, the more I realized and remembered just how good everything about it was.
Painted live with the Sand Fleas this evening to benefit the Trinidad Coastal Land Trust. I’ve painted with a lot of bands and live musicians but never tried this before, where the focus is turned back squarely to the musicians. In fact I generally avoid figurative work altogether. There was some consensus that it looked a fair bit better earlier in the evening, but I’m not convinced. My feeling is that it didn’t come together till the very last song they played. Oh well, who’s to say anyway?
Headed up the coast on a gray day. Surfed some fun summertime glassy gutless beachbreak nearby as the morning gray burned into afternoon blue. Figured it would be a good time to paint for a bit, and just after finishing the summer grayness returned.
That’s a big part of the fun (and sometimes frustration) of painting outdoors- working in rhythm with nature. You cant force it, but when you find that you are dancing in step with her, both of you moving with the maker’s drumbeat, its hard not to fall in love.
Plein air from a van rocked by gusty winds. I tried to leave this area after the last one, I was beat, dirty, and looking forward to a hot shower and my family’s faces once again. But just as I was mentally plotting where I might find the nearest cheeseburger before making the 5 hour drive home, there was a fork in the road. To the left was food and the prospect of being home tonight, to the right was a road that would take me further out on this headland, already an hour’s dogleg from highway one. I’d never been this far out here before and not knowing when I’d be this way again it was an easy choice. I’d have to sleep in the van one more night. Then 5 or 10 minutes down that new road there was another fork that headed to the leeward side of the headland. I thought I would just take a look and then continue to the end of the main road. I never made it past this view. I literally used the side door opening on my van as a viewfinder for this one. Nothing in me felt like painting except for the sense of awe and opportunity that this beauty presented, so I ate a bit of dry bread for fuel and pushed through this one as quickly as I could and moved on. By now the exhaustion and hunger had the best of me and this time I chose the cheeseburger over the end if the road. Still had to sleep in the van though.
I’d hiked this windswept beach for hours through the midday heat when the sun is at its shadowless peak. I was looking for a few things- a painting mostly, but also a wave or two. What I found was mostly wind. Lots of it. Blowing hard offshore early in the hike, then sideshore as the coast gradually bent to meet it. Just once it stopped briefly, then switched gently and met me face to face, greeting me with a holy sprinkling of sand, curiously examining this bearded fellow with the funny backpack. Not threatening but not welcoming either, whispering a cautious reminder of what she did to those Spaniards the other day who attempted to sail her waters. I told her what I was looking for but she said nothing and flew violently back to her Maker, leaving me to search in vain for a spot to paint that would convey the desolate beauty here. Even if I’d mustered the mojo to scramble up the cliffs for a better view, my gear would have surely blown off and out to sea before getting too far. Still early in the afternoon, I was resolved to find some sort of windblock in or near the next ravine. The steep wall that sheltered me there would surely cast its shadow soon. The tide would fill in and cover the wet and rippled sand along the rock wall on which I perched. I would wait patiently and go after it when the time was right. After a long while 3 things became clear. First, the afternoon brought a shift in the wind and I was no longer sheltered, canvas bouncing like a kickdrum at a punk rock show, and my heavily weighted easel threatening to set sail with each gust. A brush in one hand, my easel in the other attempting to ride this bull to completion. Secondly, the tide had peaked and the water would not crest the berm today. And thirdly, the coast here hooks so unusually that I had no bearings on direction when staring at the overhead sun and grossly miscalculated its arc. This ravine would remain lit up and shadeless for hours to come. I’d already blocked the painting in, anticipating these changes and really enjoyed the way it was looking, so I did what any fool that speaks to the wind might do. I kept on going, and that was her answer.
The night before I painted this I stepped into a small bar in an even smaller town to sip a beer and charge my dead phone.
Open mic night was raging for a handful of locals and passer-throughs like myself.
Nursing my beer in the corner by the pool table (only spot near an outlet), and watching a few Mexican fellows play their game, I must have looked a bit too interested because next thing I knew a local had me lined up to shoot a game with him. He chose a poor opponent, I nearly didn’t sink a single shot even after he cleared his from the table.
We got to chatting a bit and I mentioned I’m down from Humboldt, and he says he knows the guy that painted the Humboldt Surf Company sign years ago when they were on the plaza up there. I’m tripping out a bit because he doesn’t even seem slightly familiar to me, but he described the sign I painted pretty well.
At one point he turns to me and for some reason says, “Welcome home.”
I reckon he was fairly stoned, he said so himself anyway.
Through the course of that single beer I had a few other fun conversations as well, one with another artist who saw me painting at the path down to the beach earlier in the day. Another with a musician’s friend who seemed to think they knew me, but this time I was sure they were mistaken. During that conversation one of the Mexican pool players took to the mic with a guitar while a gringo joined in on piano and belted out some numbers that had the whole room hooting and hollering.
Once they wrapped up, I checked my phone and it was charged, checked my beer and it was empty, checked my social interaction comfort level and it was as non-existent as ever, so I promptly checked out for the night and retreated to the dark and quiet confines of my van parked in a residential neighborhood around the corner.
I hit the road at first light, and arrived not too much later to this desolate beach I’d been wanting to explore for years.
After a quick swim I walked up on the bluff to get a better view of this pristine piece of California that I’d never laid eyes on before. I noticed my van in the carpark, and this time I welcomed myself home.
-Entry on June 29, 2016
This was a rough day. Had to surf twice, before and after painting this one. All in a day’s work I guess…
Took a grueling hike in the heat of the day yesterday in search of a spot I’ve been eyeing on the map for years. Like all the best places it requires a drive off the main road until the pavement ends, then a drive down a dirt road until the road ends, then you get out and walk. Unfortunately I didn’t find any views of the spot I had wanted to see, but the walk up the coast was a walk back in time to old California, possibly ancient even. California does this sometimes. Here she is, same as she ever was. Every bit worth all the sweat and effort to get here. Lots to more to explore, hoping to get back here another day…
Some places
You come to
Almost by accident
Others
Take
A bit more effort
Nobody
Comes down from the mountain
Without first
Having to climb it
Nobody comes to the end
Of the trail
Without first
Traveling its length
Nobody comes up
From the sea
Without first going under
And nobody arrives
In that small town across the bay
Without knowing first where it is
But mostly
That’s just because
Someone keeps stealing the sign
Painted this one from the mobile studio. It wasn’t moving at the time though. That would have been rough. Although that mighta helped keep the monstrous flies out of the van… they were nuts. Had to swing my paint rag around every couple minutes the entire time I was painting. I think they liked my yellow.
This was the only painting I painted today. Oh, I had plenty of time to do another one, maybe even two, but I hadn’t explored this particular piece of coast before other than a quick surf check that consisted of a total of 5 minutes in the carpark below before moving on to seek a more sheltered location.
Today, I had all day. These trails weave all over the hills providing views of the ocean and lessons in history, scattered with WWII era bunkers at every knoll with a commanding view. For years, many uniformed eyes must have been stationed on these hills staring out at this view, scanning the blue waters for anything out of place. I don’t know if the view ever got old for them, or if they considered it just one of the perks of their otherwise often uneventful job assignment.
Either way, I spent the whole day wandering around taking in these views and almost didn’t even paint this, but as late afternoon set in, I figured I’d better get to work.
